Anxious to make a humble appeal, she’d had to wait a week for him to find time. The agreed-upon two months of arranged courtship now drew near its close. Her heart, mind, and spirit told her not to decide yet in favor of marriage to Lord Peter Winstead. On top of the doubts, she’d met an intriguing possibility in Lord Russell. Why couldn’t Papa have chosen him instead of Lord Winstead?
Papa’s obsession with joining the upper class sprang from the days when he courted and married her mother, the daughter of a well-to-do squire, who belonged to the gentry. Papa, however, rose through the merchant class. Mama mingled some in the haute ton during her single years, but that ended with her marrying ‘down.’ Wealthy as the Southwood family was, the upper class snubbed them, and the coveted social whirl of the haute ton remained out of reach.
Melissa had no peace of mind concerning Lord Winstead, Papa’s hand-picked selection. Arranged marriage sounded acceptable at first, but once on that path, she was less sure of her capacity to go forward. Winstead showed no fruit of sincere faith, causing her to lose confidence in Papa’s choice. Part of her wanted it to work, if only to please and honor her father’s wishes.
Since Lord Russell was in London, she became even less sure of Lord Winstead. Though Russell wasn’t courting her, his very presence in town encouraged a delayed decision. He was real and gave valid substance to her reluctance.
She went over the facts. Lord Peter Winstead appeared acceptable. Handsome, polite, clean, lively, and intelligent, his low finances were not problematical because of her father’s vast fortune. He possessed impeccable social standing, and his reputation was not sullied like many of the young gadabouts who came to London and pursued lives of rakish impropriety. Despite the list of positives, Lord Winstead’s faith life did not make a good match for her own.
A maid appeared. “Miss, the master can see you now.”
Melissa proceeded into the library where her father worked on the days he stayed home. As usual, she chose the comfortable armchair facing him across his desk.
“You wanted to speak with me, daughter?”
“Yes, Papa, it’s about the arrangement with Lord Winstead.” The words came out on a gust of courage.
Southwood grinned, sat straighter, and rubbed his hands together. “Are you ready to give your final consent and approval to my plan?”
“No. I decided to request an extension. Things are going along rather well, but I would like more time to decide.” Revealing doubts about Winstead’s faith would not help her cause. She twirled a wavy strand of hair around her finger.
“If you should reject Lord Winstead’s suit, I will have to return to the drawing board, so to speak, and select another sprig of the nobility to present to you. I’ll need to work that into my busy schedule.” Mr. Southwood slumped in his chair and sighed. “How much longer do you need?”
“In one more month, I should be able to know.”
“I’ll see that Winstead is informed of the extension. My girl, if I have to begin again, I am afraid I won’t be as patient.” He shuffled some papers on his desk with a distracted air. This signal told her he’d already moved on to other thoughts and that the little meeting was about over.
The reprieve made her want to dance and skip. Before he could object, Melissa rushed around the desk, threw her arms around him, and kissed the top of his head. “I do appreciate this!”
Melissa scurried out of the room, and when she saw the hall was empty, she skipped to the stairway. A fizz of joyful hope bubbled up as she climbed the stairs. This delay was needed to decide what to do about Lord Peter Winstead. Thoughts of Lord Russell continued to intrude upon her peace, however, making it a chore to focus on Lord Winstead, her only sanctioned suitor.
17
Mark moved in a daze after the previous day’s encounter with Miss Southwood. The normal male drive to obtain a goal warred within him. He had to quell urges numerous times to keep from taking rash action. Lord, she’s the desire of my heart. Please.... He trailed off in uncertainty. Unsure if his prayers were appropriate, he settled for an inward groan.
Southwood himself soundly rebuffed Mark’s self-abasing and embarrassing advance. What to do? What tactic provided an approach now? Miss Southwood hadn’t been seen at any social events.
Mark, alone in his private rooms at the club, wracked his brain for a plan. Southwood craved for his lineage to be connected to the aristocracy. Perhaps entrée to polite society and its frivolous round of balls, soirees, and routs would draw Mr. Southwood and his daughter out into the open giving Mark’s chances to further the acquaintance. He’d seek an opportunity to be reconsidered as an approved suitor for Melissa. Was it possible Southwood might decide to allow more than one man to woo Melissa?
Mark grasped at straws. He kept his dim hopes alive by fantasizing scenarios in which he conquered as the hero. On their heels came imagined unbidden scenes of failure or the loss of his heroine. He took himself to bed, and to sleep—dreaming of his beautiful, golden-haired lady.
~*~
He woke to the sound of multiple church bells, leapt out of bed, and called for his valet, who shaved and dressed Mark. He ordered his carriage to be brought around. In no mood for breakfast, he dashed downstairs and into the shiny town carriage. He shouted directions to the coachman as he got in, and then rapped on the ceiling. Just enough time to get to his aunt’s house.
“There you are.” Aunt Lucy waited at the door, and Mark escorted her down to the waiting conveyance.
“The bouquet and note you sent were charming. Did you think I’d forget our plan to attend worship?” Her brow arched.
“No insult intended, Aunt Lucy. Merely following up. St. George’s has a reputation for excellent music.” He hoped the preacher was inspiring as well.
It was the first time he’d been in a London church since his conversion. He remembered attending church with his parents as a child. The services had been dry, unsatisfactory experiences, boring and meaningless to his young, unconverted mind. But now, the beautiful words of Old and New Testament scriptures rolled over him as he took in the passages being read by the minister. The service was the same, but his heart was new.
“… live a godly, righteous, and sober life ….” He now owned these words as he said the Prayer of Confession. The liturgy suited him fine, and the worship refreshed and strengthened him.
The service ended, and he knelt one more time. Dear Lord, please smooth my path to find a wife—Melissa—if it be Your will. I need and desire a helpmeet, and I put all my plans and efforts in Your hands.
He got off his knees, straightened, and took Aunt Lucy’s hand and patted it into place on his arm. They moved toward the door at the back of the church where the minister greeted each congregant and visitor. After they passed through that portal, they came out into the bright sun of the everyday world again. He wished the sunshine was a sign his bright hopes stood a chance.
Mark helped his aunt back into the carriage. They discussed the sermon as they rode home to her house for Sunday dinner.
~*~
In the drawing room at Aunt Lucy’s townhouse, Mark set down his tea and turned to his aunt with a sigh of satisfaction. “Aunt, it’s quite rewarding to feast on the products of your excellent kitchen.”
“Now, nephew, don’t stuff yourself on those seed cakes, because I’ve ordered a light Sunday dinner to be served not too long from now. My servants get each Sunday off, beginning at one o’clock. Many of them go off to their own families, and thus, we do dine a bit early.”
The idea of enabling the Southwoods to enter society kept nagging at him. Having no better ideas of how to get in their good graces, he floated the plan to Aunt Lucy. “Do you think your superb staff would be able to cope if you hosted a ball?”
Aunt Lucy eyed him over the rim of her cup, brows elevated. “A ball?”
Maybe it was too much to ask. But he tried to respond with nonchalance. “Yes, a ball. You know, music, dancing, flowers, receiving line, and all.”
She quirked her lips at his teasing explanation. “It’s possible to have a ball here, but why?”
“Now I must confide in you. You indeed recall my initial visit here last week and our conversation about me wanting a wife?”
“I’d never forget such a scintillating talk.” She toyed with the handle of her teacup.
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you also remember the rich merchant you mentioned? The one who seeks an aristocratic spouse for his daughter?”
Aunt Lucy nodded. “My memory is clear.”
“Indeed. After I left here, I learned the most pertinent and remarkable facts about your snippet of information. The young lady in question, the daughter of the rich merchant, is Miss Southwood, the very young lady who was a guest at the vicarage in Russelton village when I was attacked.”
Confusion danced across Aunt Lucy’s visage. “What are you saying?”
Mark held out a calming hand. “Miss Southwood was the Cleavers’ visitor at the time of my recuperation. She was the one who discovered me in the ditch after the robbery and went for help.”
“Had you not been found…I shudder to think.”
“Miss Southwood helped with nursing duties for two days after the attack—when I was in and out of consciousness—before she had to leave for London.”
“She’s in London now? I think I begin to understand.” Aunt Lucy pursed her lips in concentration.
“I called on her father yesterday to inquire, and he rejected me in no uncertain terms. Lord Winstead is courting Melissa with her father’s approval. However, I encountered her on my way out of the house and talked with her.”
“Was that proper?” Aunt Lucy sat and listened, with slight confusion on her face.
“Aunt, the important thing is that I am highly interested in Miss Southwood, and a ball given by you would provide me another chance to woo her away from Winstead.”
“Why is that, young man?”
“Her father’s goal is for his daughter to marry an aristocrat and join the haute ton. He’d surely covet an invitation to a ton ball. It’s probable he has a yen to move in upper circles.” Mark absently stroked his watch fob.
“Dear me, can’t you approach the man once more and attempt to interject yourself into the running?”
“No. He is not an indecisive man, nor one easily influenced. Southwood thinks he’s got a winner already and put me off in no uncertain terms. I’ve cudgeled my brainbox for a plan. I’d have at least a slim chance to establish a courtship if you were to invite them to your ball. It’s the only idea I have and perhaps it will bring her father around to reconsider my suit.”
“Do you think so? Balls are delightful.” Aunt Lucy tipped her head to one side, considering, brows drawn together. “Are you sure it will benefit your suit?”
“It’s a gamble. But since Winstead is up to his ears in debt, he can’t host a tea party, much less a ball. A coveted invitation from you might cause Southwood to reconsider his rebuff of me.”
“That man has a lot of brass to pass up a fine suitor like you, Mark. He should think again.”
“Even if not, Miss Southwood herself might become more resistant to accept Winstead if she has the opportunity to further her acquaintance with me.”
“I hate how your hopes hang on such slim strands, but I am not opposed to your idea. It’s been years since I’ve given a ball, and the idea has appeal. It might be fun.”
She opened her arms for a hug and tilted her cheek to receive her nephew’s kiss.
“You’re a dear lady. It will be a lot of work for you.”
“I relish the task.”
“Send all the bills to me. You shan't spend a farthing on this.”
After this agreeable exchange, Mark began to pace. Lucy sipped tea, started lists, and made notes.
The plan to host a ball would require Aunt Lucy to a hoped-for, but by-no-means assured, result. His mind swirled with scenarios. He’d love to sweep Melissa into his arms and carry her out of the ball, to his waiting coach, and head for Gretna.
Would the Southwoods even accept the invitation? He snapped out of his daydreams and reminded himself to take his worries to God. His plans were in God’s hands. The Bible says a wife is a good thing. He hoped Miss Southwood was the one for him.
Urgency gripped him as he considered the numerous obstacles he must overcome to win her hand and her heart. He paced for a while.
“By the way, it was delightful to step down the aisle on your arm, nephew. But more than mere earthly delight the worship service brought me true renewed peace.”
“I’m so glad for you, Aunt Lucy.”
“I remember how much faith used to mean in my life. My spirit was refreshed this morning, and I am ready to serve the Lord again.” Her cheeks were red and eyes bright. She patted the seat next to her with entreaty in her eyes.
“That’s wonderful. I understand.” He swept away the tails of his coat and sat next to his aunt, reaching for her hand.
“My attitude became sour in the sad years since my husband passed away. But now, I will do all I can to assist you, dear nephew.”
“You are so loyal, Aunt Lucy.” He patted her hand.
“I shall also cast about for some charity work to occupy my remaining years. Lord willing they’ll be many. Mr. Banting wouldn’t want me to languish away. I’m far too young for that.”
“You aren’t old at all.”
She ignored his remark and went on. “Planning the ball can wait until after the Sabbath day. Tomorrow will be soon enough to choose the guest list, pick a date, write invitations, draft a menu, hire caterers and musicians, order flowers, and order the ballroom cleaned and prepared.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“The anticipation of wearing a new ball gown can commence as well, for I shall send out a summons to Madame Olivier too, requesting her to appear here as early as tomorrow afternoon.”
18
Melissa stood at the glossy hall table in the family’s mansion, shuffling through the mail five days later. A particular missive caught her attention. She turned over the luxurious envelope to find a return address indicating an invitation. The Honorable Mrs. Lucy Banting.
She tucked the interesting piece of mail under one arm and lifted the hem of her velvet-trimmed dress to accommodate her dash into her drawing room for a letter-opener with which to slit the envelope. Withdrawing the enclosed card, she read the engraved words within and sat down with a whoosh. A ball. What a surprise. Would Papa accept an invitation to a haute ton ball? They’d never received one before. Who was Mrs. Banting?
While she twirled a curl near her cheek, her mind flew to her wardrobe. How pleasurable it would be to wear the creamy white ball gown made by Madame Olivier. A ball would justify donning the luscious creation. The entrée into high society her father long desired appeared to be in his grasp.
He’d soon join her for tea. There’d be the invitation to discuss and distract him from his single-mindedness of late. He’d been rather impatient with her and prone to mention the courtship deadline every time they spoke.
Receiving an invitation to Mrs. Banting’s ball was an enigma, and solving that puzzle appeared to be a dead end at the moment. Her thoughts returned to her main trouble. Melissa wasn’t necessarily averse to the thought of marrying into the aristocracy, but she wanted to make sure to marry another believer.
Lord Winstead’s few expressions of faith amounted only to performing the appropriate responses during the Anglican worship service, and once saying grace before they lunched together at the Southwood home.
Did her suitor’s actions present any evidence of a desire to serve the Lord? He’d been kind to her. Kindness counted for something. He treated her with no condescension, and he acted with politeness.
But there were incidents. A brusque response when they passed a beggar who held out a ragged hat. Even though Winstead’s funds were short, he could have been gentler. Didn’t some of his repartee veer over int
o inappropriateness? Had a few of his stories verged into the category of gossip? Maybe, but it was hard to say, and Melissa hated to criticize or condemn Lord Winstead. In fact, she felt sorry for him.
The man’s attentions were dutiful, at least, never staying past the prescribed twenty minutes and alternating with drives every other day like clockwork. Reviewing their rote relationship flattened Melissa’s mood and left her doubtful.
Males were almost a complete mystery to Melissa, making it even harder to evaluate one. Never spending time with any man except Papa created a significant deficit in her knowledge. Men were, in general, more rough-hewn around the edges than the ladies, and that alone may account for the questionable banter and tittle-tattle.
The door opened after a light tap, and Papa entered the room with his customary air of vibrant energy.
“Aren’t you a picture, darling!” He bent over her and kissed her upturned cheek. “Stand up so I can see you better.”
Exuding cheer, Mr. Southwood grasped Melissa’s hands to help her rise from the chair and held them wide to admire her. “Your mama would be pleased at how you’ve blossomed into a real lady. You’ll marry Lord Winstead, and you’ll be one right and tight.” Papa’s compulsion to gain the social acceptance once close enough to grasp, drove him.
“Do let go, Papa.” Melissa withdrew her hands from his and stepped away. “I’ve already ordered hot water for our tea, and the servant might return at any moment. Don’t want them to think you undignified.”
“Humph.” He sat down.
“This came in this morning’s post.”
He accepted the envelope she handed across and began to peruse it. A footman entered, deposited a tray on the low table, and bowed his way out.
Melissa prepared the tea, acting the perfect lady. She placed a cup in front of her father, picked up her own, and took a sip.
Papa looked up, a gleam in his eye. “This is excellent!”
“The tea, Papa?” She presented an innocent smile, which soon gave way to a teasing grin.
A Match for Melissa Page 10
